Phish NET Stalkings

by Denise Robbins

  * * * *

  Jane delayed going into the office the next morning, making her first stop the Blue Heron Tattoo & Body Piercing shop on Loudon Road.

  In the tattoo parlor, Jane glanced around the room at the various blown up pictures of different body parts and the ink-art needled into the skin. On one man’s beefy bicep the artist carved a barbed wire into his arm. She rubbed at the same spot on her own arm as she meandered to the next photograph.

  A butterfly of red, yellow, and black adorned the ankle of a woman who posed with what had to be three-inch spiked heels. “Cute,” she murmured and moved on. She trembled at the next image. It showed a very sharp knife with three drops of red blood trickled from its tip on the inside of a man’s forearm. She wondered if the blood signified anything important, like one for each kill. A ripple of fear skittered up her back.

  Jane wrinkled her nose and wandered the room eyeing the other photos. The black bull drew her in. It seemed almost real as if it would jump off the paper. All she had to do was wave a red cape in front of it and it would charge. The animal’s head came over the man’s shoulder and when she blinked the bull’s dark eye seemed to wink back. When she realized what hung from the bull’s nose, she gasped and reflexively cupped her left breast in a protective gesture. In the center of the animal’s nose hung a gold ring from the man’s nipple.

  “Ouch!”

  “You can say that again.”

  She jumped, spun, and caught off guard took an automatic step back. Her leg bumped into something, she lost her balance, and stumbled, her arms wind milling. If not for the strong hands of the man who had surprised her in the first place, Jane would have fallen onto her butt. Instead, he gripped her arms and tugged her upright. Her front slammed into his rock hard chest and the air left her lungs.

  “You okay, little lady?”

  Little lady? She blinked up at him, unable to speak for lack of breath, and swallowed.

  “You okay?”

  His jade eyes twinkled and she would have sworn she saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Jane cleared her throat. “Fine, thank you.” She attempted to extricate herself from his grasp, but he held firm.

  “I’d say better than fine,” he drawled in a smooth bourbon voice as his gaze traveled down her body and back up again. “Can I help you?”

  “N-no thank you,” she told him and managed to disentangle herself. She brushed at her sleeves and skirt smoothing out the material.

  “Did you come in for a tattoo?”

  Jane straightened. Her spine snapped taut and her gaze narrowed on the man with the jade eyes. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.” She turned on her heels and went toward the front desk in search of the receptionist, or whoever was in charge of the shop. She leaned over the counter and did not see anyone. Where could the tattoo artist be?

  The man, her savior, her own personal heating blanket, followed. When he moved behind the desk, her eyes widened. Persistent.

  “Do you have an appointment?” He shuffled pages in a book.

  He was kidding right? Jane arched one brow. No way, he didn’t really work here. He…dressed too nice, no denim, no Grateful Dead T-shirt. Her gaze drifted from the man’s face to his arms and back up again. He had no tattoos.

  “It’s hidden,” he answered her unasked question.

  Her lips formed an O, but no sound came out.

  “Want to see it?”

  He gave her a crooked grin and she shook her head. “Where is the tattoo guy?”

  One of his chestnut brows arched. “Honey, you’re looking at him.” He held out a large hand. “The name is Thor.”

  After eyeing the offered hand with wariness for a second, she slipped her nervous palm against his and shook.

  “Do you have a name?”

  “What? Oh, yes, sorry. Jane. My name is Jane.”

  “Hello, Jane,” he said with a brilliant grin. “What kind of tattoo are you looking to get? A tramp stamp perhaps? Come. Let me show you a few designs.”

  Jane couldn’t keep up with him. Thor. A tramp stamp? He came around the counter, ushered her to a small black leather sofa and chair seating area, and on the coffee table started flipping through a book.

  “Ah. This one.” He directed her to an image of a pink heart with wavy and curling black lines coming up and off the bottom tip of the heart. The tattoo itself resided at the lower back across the bikini-clad woman’s spine.

  “Uh, no.”

  “Sit. Sit. If you don’t like this one I’m sure I can find something else that will suit you.” Thor took her by the elbow and helped her onto the leather cushion. He took the seat right next to her.

  “I don’t want a tramp stamp,” she managed to get out, but not before Thor started flipping pages in another binder.

  “You’re so right. You are much better suited for an ankle design.” He openly ogled her crossed legs.

  Jane immediately dropped both her feet to the floor.

  “This,” Thor exulted. “This is so you.”

  Indulging him, she glanced down at the photo and stared in wide-eyed amazement. The picture was of a woman’s ankle and on it was a cross-shaped like a T with a loop at the top. “An Ankh.”

  “Yes, the Egyptian symbol for eternal life. And an asp.”

  The cobra seemed to be part of the Ankh, its body wrapped around the cross, over to one side of the loop, and then stopping like a headdress on top of the loop. It was simple yet beautiful, and it rattled her to her core. The image was too close to a symbolization of Cleopatra for comfort. She turned from the image and reached for her handbag.

  “Mr. Thor.”

  “Just Thor.”

  “Thor.” Jane handed him a sheet of paper. “I didn’t come here for a tattoo.” It never even crossed her mind. “I came to discuss tattoo art and artists.”

  He took the paper and stared down at it, then ran his hand across his chin as if in concentration. Every once and a while he made noises—grunts, of appreciation, she thought.

  “I need to know if this is a common tattoo or if this is custom.”

  “Custom,” he replied without taking his gaze off the drawing. “You drew this?”

  Jane inclined her head once. “From memory.”

  He drew his attention away from the paper and stared at her. “You saw this once and you drew it?” Thor shook his head. “Unbelievable memory. How close to the real thing do you think you are?”

  She shrugged. “I have no way of knowing until I find the person with the tattoo.”

  “Are you the police?” he asked, his tone turning stony.

  Jane almost choked on the accusation in his voice. “No. I simply want to find the man who has the tattoo, or the man who did the tattoo.”

  “Hmm.” He looked back down at the sketch. “Are you sure these are eyes?” Thor jabbed a finger at the orbs filled with red that were the tarantula’s eyes.

  “I’m pretty sure, but I saw it from a distance. Why?”

  “I’m thinking.” Thor picked up a pen. “May I?”

  Jane nodded.

  “The way you drew these, they are all depicted somewhat different.”

  She noticed that too, but she couldn’t explain why, other than perhaps the spider had been cross-eyed.

  Thor moved the pen effortlessly across the paper in quick, short movements. “Perhaps they are spider eyes, but inside the eyes aren’t red pupils, but symbols.”

  “Symbols?”

  “Sure. A lot of men, in particular gang members, have certain symbols that represent their organization. Other people use Chinese symbols to express their name, or it could be as simple as initials.”

  He picked up another pencil and added more detail to her rough sketch. It was eerie how every movement of his hand summoned the vision from her dream, bringing it to life. At once, her pulse spiked and she felt the need to run. When he added the hair and the tiny claws onto the spider’s legs hanging from the hawk’s mouth the thing looked so vivid she thought it woul
d jump off the page or the hawk would fly overhead.

  “You’re good,” she whispered.

  Thor inclined his head and smiled at her. “Thank you. I studied at the Maryland Institute College of Art.”

  “That is one of the top art schools in the US.”

  He must have heard the surprise in her voice because his lip quirked up to one side. “Yes, many tattoo artists have studied the fine arts. Tattoos offer a better living and none of the bureaucracy with corporate marketing and advertising firms.”

  Embarrassed, Jane blushed at her obvious stereotyped prejudice. “I apologize. I meant no disrespect.” She touched his arm.

  “None taken.” Thor patted her hand.

  She removed her hand from his arm and stared at the new drawing. It was so real. “Can you make out the initials or symbols in the eyes?”

  “I think this one is a C.” He laid a finger on one of the top eyes. “I think this is a C as well.” He slid his index finger down to another eye. “You see how what you drew seemed to have the same shape, but just a little more blurred. Maybe it was the angle you had when seeing the tattoo. It’s really hard to tell from what you’ve sketched, but I’m betting the letter C.”

  The letter C. For Cassandra? For Cleopatra? Did the guy ink in the letters of the people he has killed or was about to kill? Jane put her hand over her mouth to keep the bile that rose in the back of her throat from escaping. She breathed in and out. Could that be it?

  She dropped her hand. “Is there a way to identify the artist who did the work on the man’s arm or maybe where the tattoo art originated from?”

  “Like an artist who signs his work on canvas?” Thor asked. “No. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “How does it work?”

  “If an artist wants to share his work, then sure, they can sell it to other parlors and such. Most tattoo art comes from Flash. Flash is what you see hanging on the walls over there and in many of the books sitting on the various tables.” Thor showed her a group of black-framed images. Some of them looked simple and not very artistic, while others looked beautiful with unbelievable detail. “Sometimes art comes from the client. We take pictures of the work, but depending on the deal, we may or may not get to use that design again. It is possible to tell an artist’s work by how he mixes the ink. We all do it a little differently. Depending on the notoriety of the artist, it is very easy to tell who the artist is by their overall design and strokes, much like that of Monet or Renoir.”

  “Really? Can you tell who did this one?” she asked with hope.

  He narrowed his gaze at the sketch she had drawn and then at the one he had redrawn. “I can’t be for certain because it’s hard to tell from a drawing by someone else and not the artist. A picture of the actual tattoo would be easier to tell.”

  Jane’s shoulders dropped. “Oh.”

  “Don’t be so glum. Can you leave this with me? I’ll use yours and mine together as comparisons and see if I can’t either identify the artist if he is known, or narrow the scope of potential artists for you.”

  “You would do that?”

  “For a price.”

  Jane’s head snapped up. The wicked gleam in Thor’s eyes told her that his fee had nothing to do with money.

  He wiggled his brows at her. “You have to let me give you a tattoo.”

  “What? No. Are you kidding? Besides, how do I know you aren’t just pulling my leg and going to give me some tattoo, but deliver nothing in return?”

  A deep rumble came from Thor’s broad chest. “You get the tattoo after we find your artist.”

  Jane narrowed her gaze and eyed Thor with skepticism. Hmm. “I get to choose the design?”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of creating a personal design just for you.”

  She worried the idea over in her mind for a few seconds and then decided what the hell. “Deal,” she said and extended her hand.

  Thor took the offered hand and shook. “Deal.”

  With a short tug, Thor helped Jane up off the leather sofa and walked her to the door.

  “Here’s my contact information,” she said offering her business card. “You’ll call me as soon as you know something.”

  “You can reach me here if I don’t get in touch soon enough.”

  Her lips lifted into a smile, appreciating Thor’s keen sense of her personality and her urgency. “Thank you.” She waved as she walked out of the shop. She was onto something. She just knew it.

  TWENTY-SIX

  After dealing with the situation at Not-so-plain-Jane’s boutique, Cooper and Jack went back to the station where Cooper picked up his vehicle and was headed home when he decided to take a detour. If he could not get answers from Jane then he would see about getting answers from the next best source.

  He pulled into David Conrad’s driveway and parked. It was after ten. Perhaps he should have waited until morning. He contemplated putting the car in reverse when the outside light switched on. “Too late now,” he mumbled and zipped up his jacket. Now David knew he was here.

  He lifted the collar against the biting wind, jumped out of his vehicle and rushed up the back steps where David stood waiting with the door open.

  “Hurry up before you let all the heat out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t call me sir,” David ordered. “The name is David.”

  “Yes, suh, David.” He shut the door and wiped his feet. “Sorry to stop by so late.”

  “I’m surprised you stopped by at all. What do you want?”

  Cooper had to admire a man who was direct and to the point. He cleared his throat. “Did Jane tell you about what happened at the boutique tonight?”

  David stopped halfway across the kitchen and spun on him. “What?” David cut the distance between them by half. “What happened? Is Jane okay? Which boutique?”

  “Jane is fine. I take that as a no, Jane did not call you.”

  “No.”

  He noticed the way David’s jaw flexed. He was pissed.

  “She’s a stubborn one.”

  “You don’t know the half.” David turned back, this time heading toward the refrigerator. “I have a feeling I’m going to need a drink.” He opened the door and paused to look back at him. “Are you off duty? You want to join me in a beer?”

  “I’ll pop the top on a brew with you.”

  “Thanks,” he said when David handed him a cold bottle. He twisted the cap off and tucked it in his pocket.

  “C’mon. I’ve got a fire going.”

  Cooper followed him into the living room and took a seat in a low, barrel-type leather chair next to the roaring fire. Setting the beer on the dark wood table, he shrugged out of his jacket and slung it over the back of the chair.

  “Before you leave, remind me to return your sweatshirt you left here the other day.”

  “Thanks.” He saluted David with his beer and glanced around the room. It was warm. Not just heat-wise, but warm as in inviting. A sofa sat directly across from the fireplace and two chairs with a round coffee table in between all sitting upon a large, rectangular rug. The rug was light shades of maroon and gold, while the furniture was in deeper versions of the same tones. On one wall, there were dark built-ins filled with books and a few knick-knacks. Original to the house, Cooper would bet. Maybe he could add some built-ins to his house.

  Hearing a throat clear, he pulled his attention back to the older man.

  “Someone broke into the boutique tonight. Jane walked in on the intruder while he was still there. He hit her over the head.”

  “I thought you said she wasn’t hurt.”

  “She wasn’t hit hard enough to do damage to her stubborn head.”

  A low chuckle came from David. “Was it a burglary?”

  He gave a shake of his head then took a swallow of his beer. “There doesn’t appear to be anything stolen.”

  “Must have been a really bad burglar or Jane’s presence scared him off,” David suggested as he sat bac
k in the leather chair and took a sip of his beer.

  “My bet is it wasn’t a burglary at all. You should have seen the mess. My bet is that it was personal.”

  “Personal? What do you mean?”

  “I mean someone retaliating for being fired for not getting a day off when they wanted.”

  “That wouldn’t have anything to do with Jane. She doesn’t run the boutique anymore. I mean she works there one day a week or when one of the managers is out and they need coverage, but for the most part Jane isn’t involved.”

  “What does she have against cops?”

  Cooper watched. David seemed to sit deeper into the cushions, almost pulling a silent and invisible shield around him.

  “Listen. I know you two are close.”

  “You’re damn right we are, and if you came here to get secrets out of me, you made a mistake. Maybe you should leave.”

  Coop held up a hand before the older man upended his beer as he hefted himself out of his seat. “Sit down. Please,” he added when David made no move to do his bidding. “I don’t know what has happened to Jane in the past but her fear of a badge, of police is obvious. She practically clams up and definitely starts to have a panic attack whenever I put on a badge.”

  David sat back down. “And when you’re not wearing a badge?”

  Tread lightly, he warned himself. You’re walking on boggy ground here. “When I’m not wearing a badge or acting like an officer of the law, we get along fine.”

  “She said as much.”

  “She did?” he asked with a raised brow.

  “I can honestly say you are the first man in all the years I have known Jane that she is confused about.”

  “That’s a good thing?”

  “It is where Jane is concerned. She plans everything. She is in control of everything. She lets nothing shift her world. Until you.”

  “Good. Then maybe we’re on even ground. I care a lot for Jane. I didn’t think I would feel that way ever again.”

  David set his beer aside and sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Finish the thought.”

  “I didn’t think I would feel that way after my last girlfriend, but more importantly after leaving the FBI.”